


In Which Enjolras Is Painted

by whatpassesformymind



Series: Paint Splatters [AU] [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Grantaire, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatpassesformymind/pseuds/whatpassesformymind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras (somewhat unwillingly) allows Grantaire to paint him, and unwisely follows Courfeyrac's advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Enjolras Is Painted

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely unbeta'd, so forgive my typos and errors (feel free to call me out on them). Also, as I have yet to read the brick, there's a pretty high chance of them being OOC, so apologies for that too. This is my first fic for this fandom.

“Come on Enjolras. He’s already done the rest of us,” Courfeyrac encouraged him.

“Oh please Enjy, mine was lovely. It’s not that hard to sit still for a little,” Jehan joined in. Enjolras scowled.

“It’s for his final project, you ought to go,” Combeferre added without looking up from his laptop screen. “You can afford a few hours off from revision.”

And that was that. Combeferre was the voice of reason within their little group.

* * *

 

Enjolras stared, captivated, at Grantaire. Smudges of paint adorned the artist’s face, his hair, his clothes – every surface in sight. But his eyes were _alive_ , and there was the person behind the drunken cynic. He glanced up at Enjolras every now and then, less frequently as more time passed, and his brush darted from palette to canvas like a bird.

It had been two hours. Enjolras had not shifted his position once, remaining locked in place. The more he watched, the more he saw. The more he saw, the more he wanted.

He wanted to brush the hair from where it had fallen into his face, he wanted to wipe away that fleck of paint at the corner of his mouth, he wanted to kiss those lips where he chewed upon them.

Grantaire looked up, catching Enjolras’ eye.

“Nearly done,” he promised, mistaking his expression for impatience.

When Grantaire finally stood and stretched, Enjolras fled the room without even looking at the finished piece.

He could not think that way. Especially not about Grantaire.

* * *

 

“Paint me like one of your French girls.”

Grantaire opened the door fully, lips twitching upwards slightly until-

“Have you been drinking?” he demanded, smile slipping from his face before it had fully formed.

Enjolras blinked at him, swaying a little.

Talking to Combeferre hadn’t helped, for the first time that he could remember. While Combeferre was not as distanced from attraction and want as Enjolras was, his manner was awkward and his interest rare.

He had gone, next, to Courfeyrac. It had seemed a natural enough progression – who better than him, who had already been with Grantaire, to tell Enjolras how to rid himself of these needs?

Now though, as Grantaire’s hand caught his arm and pulled him into his apartment, he thought maybe that hadn’t been so wise. Courfeyrac had handed him drinks (oh why hadn’t he refused?) and if he had thought about it a bit more then maybe Enjolras would have realised that those lines would not work for him.

“Drink this,” Grantaire ordered, pushing a glass of water into his hand and watching him with arms folded. Enjolras had never seen the man this irritable – argumentative, yes. Impatient, mocking, disbelieving. But Grantaire was rarely angry at him, and in the depths of his inebriation Enjolras couldn’t understand why he was now.

He handed the empty glass back, and stumbled after Grantaire as paint covered fingers closed on his wrist.

* * *

 

He woke late, sunlight falling onto his face and head pounding.

Enjolras was never drinking again.

Someone had left a glass of water and some aspirin on the bedside table and-

And this was not his bed. Memories of Grantaire’s disappointed expression came to the front of his mind, frowning and displeased.

He was never talking to Courfeyrac again either.

He swallowed the tablets and chased them down with some water before he even got out of bed. Grantaire’s apartment was empty – where was Jehan? It was also apparent that it had been cleaned for his last visit, as empty pizza boxes, scraps of paper and art materials now dominated the tiny space.

In one corner a stack of canvases leant against the wall. The topmost one showed Enjolras, impossibly perfect, breathtakingly lifelike. He stared at it for a moment, shocked. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was unmistakeably him, favourite red shirt and all, he would have taken it for a Greek god.

Enjolras left, dropping the latch on the door on his way out.

* * *

[from: Enjolras | to: Grantaire | 11:19]

_Thanks for last night. And sorry._

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen.

[from: Enjolras | to: Grantaire | 11:20]

_Is that really how you see me?_

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably write more for this 'verse if/when I feel like it, because I have a few other thoughts on events around this. If you're reading this, then ummm... I hope you liked this?  
> Lau x


End file.
